


A Bullet through a Flock of Doves

by agendergabrielreyes (yamswrites)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Amnesia, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Childhood Trauma, Curses, Demisexual Hanzo Shimada, Demon Hunters, Demon Jesse McCree, Dragons, Everyone Needs A Hug, Horror, Jesse McCree is a Thot, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Trans Genji Shimada, Witches, Worldbuilding, so much world building. go big or go home pendejos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-08 13:39:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15244605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yamswrites/pseuds/agendergabrielreyes
Summary: Hanzo has dedicated his search in more recent months to chasing down a man— a ghost if some are to be believed.Jesse McCree.A man or beast— or even something of a mix— who could kill a man as soon as he’d laid eyes on him.





	1. awaken

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! this is something i've been working for a bit. ngl this isn't beta'd so pls excuse any errors kjaldjf i just wanted to post this asap, i'll go back and check for any more errors. i'll also add tw/trigger warnings to each chapter, but if there's something i missed or something u think i should warn for let me know and im more than happy to!
> 
> some notes: 
> 
> -past events/memories are written in past tense and everything else is written present tense. 
> 
> -also, in this au magic and mythical creatures are known, but a lot of ppl dismiss it as like fake and shit and mostly have trouble seeing those things regardless due to a veil that makes it hard for most regular humans to see (i.e. those who aren't hunters, etc). 
> 
> -in addition, there's a zodiac type thing that goes by the season one is born in. for example, those born in warmer seasons like summer and spring are thought to typically be more extroverted, friendly, etc— while those born in fall and winter may be more introverted. more will be explained in future chapters, i just wanted to add a little note so no one was confused. 
> 
> and that's abt it for now, pls enjoy!!

Hanzo Shimada does not remember most of his life. He has bits and pieces of his childhood scattered across the blank slate of his mind, where others had a multitude of memories to choose from whenever they wished to reminisce. He knows he is Hanzo, he knows he has a younger brother named Genji, a father named Sojiro, and he had a mother named Tomoe.

He remembers his birthplace is called Hanamura, but only remembers fuzzy images of it. The gardens in their home during summer and winter, pink petals in the spring, the mountains in the distance, and the place he called home. Hanzo also recalls the fact that as a boy, he cried often. His mother had told him how when he was born his cries were so loud, they could be heard outside of the castle walls.

As infant he was a fussy little thing. Getting him to cease crying was a mission in and of itself. Only his mother could quiet him. Her warmth as a woman of summer soothed his shivering wintery soul, her songs and stories quelled the tears that bubbled up when he was being rocked to sleep.

As a child, his strange sorrow seemed unending. Big, fat tears that welled up in his eyes and fell down his cheeks in a rush like rain droplets. It was unbecoming of any heir to the Shimada clan, especially the eldest. He cried tears when he first laid eyes on his little brother, fearful he would be replaced. He’d heard Father’s words to Mother in the gloom of night, when he rose from bed and snuck around the castle.

“It is unbecoming,” Father said, “He is too fragile for a child of winter.”

Mother’s voice came, hard as steel in her determination, “He will grow strong. All he requires is time.”

“He cannot be weak. Not in this world.”

Pained, Mother whispered, “I know.”

Not two days later, Hanzo began his lessons. Father decided it was best that he learned how to school his expressions into something more neutral, as well as learning to suppress the more volatile emotions that lurked within him. Once, Hanzo cried as freely as the river flowed. Now, he did not shed a single tear. It did not matter whether it was from sadness, anger, or the most excruciating pain— never a single tear came.

If Hanzo is perfectly honest, he could not recall the last time he cried. A part of him feels tugging on his heartstrings when what little memories he has pull him towards his mother— but it is like a dream you can’t quite recall, a word forgotten on the tip of the tongue.

All he knows is that in his later memories, his mother is not there. And without his mother’s summery warmth spreading as she walked the halls, the castle became lost to winter. Those cold winds began to die down as Genji grew up. Their father so devoted to his second son. It was easy to see why. Genji, the spitting image of their mother— from his gentle smiles, his kind disposition, down to the way he carried himself. A summer boy in the lands of winter; how could one not love him?

This made it easy to see why their father preferred Genji over him. Hanzo could not blame him. Once too weepy, now he’d grown cold. Frigid, just like his father. They were a mirrored image in all ways but two. Hanzo had inherited his mother's silky hair and the shape of her warm eyes. But, they did not suit him well, he thought. He never possessed the same gentle spirit as his mother. Where her eyes contained warmth and love, his were dark and cold.

If Hanzo is perfectly honest, it seems that tragedy follows him wherever he may go. In his travels, he has met a few people. Sometimes, he’d return, seeking them— only to find they were dead.

Death is in his shadow, walking in tandem with his footfalls.

He cannot explain why. It is illogical thinking, he knows this. Something sitting in his gut urges him not to ignore the feelings, but to acknowledge them feels far more frightening than he could ever imagine.

Morning draws closer. Once, Hanzo rose with the sun. Now, he falls asleep as it ascends in the sky. It is easier this way. What he hunts walks the night, so he must follow in its footsteps into the dark.

 

* * *

 

There’s a memory, distant and fuzzy in his mind’s eye. It plays behind his eyelids as he sleeps. Hanzo was young, Genji younger. They were playing together in the gardens, the plants evergreen from their mother’s summery touch, but collecting snow from that of his father’s.

The gardens were chilly, but warm enough that Hanzo didn’t need to bundle up too tightly. He was making his way over the bridge, running as fast his legs would carry him. So preoccupied that he failed to notice a slick patch of ice. It became his undoing.

Hanzo fell to the floor, the brick red planks meeting his body with an awful thud. He didn’t even have time to cry out. He’d fallen too close to the edge of the bridge and fell through one of the gaps in the railing.

The pond water was not frozen over, thankfully— but it was cold enough that it felt as though he were being stabbed over and over again. As if knives of ice were all around him, cutting him deep. Hanzo kicked towards the surface but could not quite reach it. Most alarmingly, he could not reach the floor of the pond itself.

Was the pond really so deep?

His lungs and eyes burned, but he could not see or breathe. Hanzo fought as hard as he could. Opened his mouth, tried to scream, but the only thing that occurred was water rushing in, choking him.

As his sight faded to black, a figure appeared before him. A gentle hand stroked through his hair. Hanzo thought it to be death come to take him, only to find he could suddenly breathe again. His eyesight cleared.

A girl floated before him, her long black hair swishing in the slightest from the water. Her eyes were dark and huge, a film over them. Her skin was an array of greens, browns, and blues to match the environment around her, her hands and feet webbed, she had gills, and a turtle’s shell on her back.

“You should be careful, child of winter. You are lucky it is I who found you,” She said, a frown at her lips. Her voice was soft, like the flow of a stream.

Hanzo could not trust his voice to speak, so he merely nodded.

“Come. This is no place for a human boy. I will take you back to the surface.”

Her hand in his, she led him up to the surface. It was so beautiful looking up from below, a mirror reflecting the sky and snow around them. Just as they broke through the surface, it went dark again.

Upon awakening, Hanzo felt the ache in his lungs and a deep cold down in his very bones. He awoke to his father and mother’s faces, their expressions drawn in worry and sorrow.

Hanzo opened his mouth to speak, but his throat hurt. Father snapped at a servant to fetch some water. Hanzo burrowed closer to his mother. She hugged him tight, her warmth enveloping him. She stroked his hair, still damp from the pond. “Hanzo. What on earth were you doing?”

The water was presented to him, Hanzo drank quickly and made a mess all over himself. His mother cleaned it without a thought for her fine clothes, wiped the water away with her sleeve.

“Did you fall in?” Father inquired, voice tight.

Hanzo nodded. “The ice,” he croaked.

Father frowned. “I see.”

“Did you fall or were you pushed?” Mother asked.

“I fell,” Hanzo said.

He had told the truth and yet, the cold look did not leave Father’s eyes.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo’s eyes fly open, his sleep disturbed by the dying light of sunset. It bathes his motel room in red. He lingers in bed just for a moment. Hanzo has not truly dreamt in years. Instead, his mind replays memories. Some of his youth, some closer to his age now. He hates it.

It is near impossible to get a night of good rest. It’s all he wants. Instead, he is haunted by memories of a happier time— of when he actually had a family. Those times he yearns for more than anything. What he would give to be a child again. To return to when everything was simple, and he spent his days chasing Genji around the gardens or helping his mother to tend to the flowers, or the rare occasions where he sat in his father’s lap as he held a clan meeting, feeling so important as he watched his father wield his power over the lesser lords.

Instead, he knows only bitterness and pain: his mother gone, father gone, brother missing or worse. One might ask: why remain? Why is he still here? And if Hanzo is perfectly candid, he does not know. Death is an inviting prospect; it has and always will be a temptation.

But, not yet.

First, Hanzo must learn the truth of where Genji has gone and find what it was that tore his family apart. Then, if it can die, he will kill it. Perhaps, he will know peace after that.

Now, there is work that must be done. Hanzo has dedicated his search in more recent months to chasing down a man— a ghost if some are to be believed. It’s a difficult thing, trying to hunt down a man with no roots. Harder still, to find a man who does not wish to be found.

Jesse McCree.

If rumor and local legend is to be believed, he should be here. No roots, but this state is somewhere he frequents. A man or beast— or even something of a mix— who could kill a man as soon as he’d laid eyes on him. An expert marksman in firearms, who used a gun as if an extension of himself. As Hanzo had learned about him, he discovered a common trait shared by those who he’d spoken to about Jesse McCree.

They were too afraid to speak his name.

Hanzo fears no such thing, least of all a name.

Sunset bleeds into dusk as Hanzo gets ready for tonight. He will speak with McCree and depending on the man’s answers— he may get what he wants. Or Hanzo might kill him tonight. Bow and arrow at his back, long hair pulled back out of his face with a yellow ribbon. Dressed in a leather jacket, a hoodie beneath, jeans, and combat boots he’d bartered for with an old woman at a hastily set up shop on the side of the desert road.

He is ready.

As he leaves, Hanzo pulls the hood up of his hoodie in order to cover his hair. The color is strange, has been like this since he awoke in the forest a year ago, alone. Black that fades into white about a quarter of the way down. He knows it is not a natural occurrence, doesn't like to think of what it might mean. At any rate, the coloration might draw too much attention for someone like him: one who walks in shadow.

The door slams with a loud bang as he shut it behind him. As he hurries down the steps and into the parking lot, he sees the sun has mostly sunk down the horizon and behind the mountains in the distance. Although he doesn’t have much in the luxury of time, he still pauses to take in the scenery. It’s all so strange; a red, acrid, and alien world.

Mountains are so different here, red pillars of flat rock formation. Nothing like the ones back home in Hanamura: jagged black and gray stone capped with white. Sunsets here are something to behold, this he will begrudgingly admit.

But, the clock is ticking.

Hanzo heads down to the car he’d ‘rented’ at a rest stop a couple of nights ago, keys in his hands as he unlocks it, gets in. It’s nothing special, he thinks, as he does of all cars. Cars are not an interest of Hanzo’s. Never have been and never will be. Nothing more than a boring hunk of painted metal. A tool, a means to an end. It's not so much a visual memory, but something he knows— he remembers Genji and his love of flashy cars. They served little purpose but to show off wealth and to look good while tearing through the bustling streets of Tokyo at illegal speeds.

Hanzo drives for a bit. The drive should be less than fifteen minutes or so, however a part of his journey is impeded by a herd of cattle that refuses to cross the road. Inconvenient to wait for the stupid creatures to pass, but eventually they do. Irritatingly, they would not move even when he'd honked, as if the smug bastards got a thrill of being an obstacle within his way.

It takes about five more minutes to arrive at his destination, after that. Thankfully, as his patience had begun to wear thin. His stop is a seedy little bar. Made of wood and more or less falling apart, it almost looks something out of a western movie, like the one Hanzo fell asleep to the night before.  
The neon signs and light coming from the inside are the only things that make the bar appear as if it's from this century.

When he gets out of the car, he notices men leaning up against their motorcycles outside, deep in conversation. As he passes by to enter the bar, their eyes fall on him. Dark, unwelcome. He is an outsider to them. Hanzo returns their looks with a glare of his own.

One clears their throat and looks him over with heat in his eyes. “Ain’t seen you before. What brings you here, sugar?”

Hanzo pauses, just so he can look them in the eye as he says, “Do not presume to talk to me.” He doesn't have time for this foolishness, would not even tolerate it if he had all the time in this world.

A sneer from the other man, his voice is disgusting. Hanzo cannot bear to hear him speak, and his words further fuel the anger simmering in Hanzo.

“You stuck up whores are all the same. Even look it. Same look on yer faces, thinkin’ yer better than anyone else.”

Hanzo gives a nasty glare to the man, thinks about if anyone looks the same: it is this man. Hanzo swears he has seen a carbon copy of him at every gas station from here all the way to the Mississippi.

For now, he does not reply. Hanzo has more important things to do, bigger fish to fry. Depending on how things go with Jesse McCree, Hanzo might return to teach this ignorant man a lesson with his fists.

Hanzo pushes past them and enters the bar. There’s a stage, complete with live music: a man and his acoustic guitar. Hanzo stops to listen close, watching the man pluck at the guitar strings and the heartstrings of those around him. He strikes morose chords, and it sounds as if the guitar itself is weeping. Lyrics of love and loss fill the smoky air. The man's voice is warm yet haunting, like a lover beyond the grave.

Hanzo knows the man is not human.

It is easy to tell in the way those around him are enthralled, the energy about him is supernatural. The man looks up, facial features clearer now that they aren’t hidden behind his hair and submersed in shadow. Hanzo recognizes him, knows his face from wanted notices in the supernatural underground, grainy photos, and the like when he was gathering his research.

There he is, Jesse McCree in the flesh.

Jesse McCree looks up and locks eyes with Hanzo from across the room. Perhaps it was Hanzo’s gaze lingering too long that drew his attention. Or perhaps, McCree simply has a sense for knowing when eyes are on him. If any rumors are to be believed, he must have developed one. Hanzo knows firsthand how important it is to maintain awareness in your surroundings—

Yet, something about McCree’s gaze locks his limbs.

It’s as if this very moment in time is frozen over and nothing remains but their shared gaze. Hanzo is trying his hardest to break out of this spell. It’s shocking how hard he has to fight it in the first place. In the many years of his journey, he’s heard of the charms of fae, sirens, and incubi before. Always careful to avoid them, to protect himself so none were able to put him in such a trance— just as McCree has.

Somehow, he did not think it would occur so simply. Especially with little more than a look.

There is a rumble, a low frequency that settles in the air around Hanzo. McCree begins to play again— something lost and lonely. But, his lips are drawn into a smirk. He hits a chord, and everything begins to move again, the spell broken. As if that strange little incident did not even occur in the first place.

To say Hanzo is flabbergasted is an understatement. It must show on his face. Whether it be by his expression or simply the look in his eyes because he hears McCree chuckle and somehow knows it’s directed at him. Hears him as if he were in front of him and not across the room.

Apprehensive of what might occur if they lock gazes again, but impossibly curious— Hanzo looks back up to where McCree plays, painted in a warm glow of the shoddy stage lights.

McCree winks.


	2. bargin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey there, stranger.”
> 
> Hanzo startles at the voice. It's strange, sounds almost like two voices intermingling. A man's voice, deep and with a southern drawl, with an undercurrent of something... inhuman. Hanzo tries to find the source of it. First, he glances behind him. Nothing but an empty bathroom. He looks to the door. Closed. No one there.
> 
> His eyes flash to the mirror. Instead of his own reflection stands McCree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! thank you so much for your feedback on the first chapter, it was really nice and super encouraging! i'm sorry for the delay in getting this next chapter up, i was trying to make sure it was as good as it could be. I'm hoping to have the next chapter up within a week or two, hopefully lmao.
> 
> pls excuse any errors im half asleep when im posting this lol. i'll go back to check and make sure i dont have any glaring errors later. i just really wanted to get this chapter up. no crit, no beta we die like men lmao
> 
> a note: 
> 
> -demons feed on humans, like depending on the demon or creature, sometimes it's just their energy other times it's like actually eating humans— which is mentioned a bit in this chapter so just a warning if that might gross u out or bother you. i can't think of anything else in particular but if u find smth to warn for let me know! 
> 
> enjoy!

After the last chord of the guitar fades out, Hanzo begins his search for McCree. He starts with a walk around the bar, feigns an interest in a game of pool, and orders a drink. It's disgusting— the drink. It burns fiercely as it goes down, but he drinks it nonetheless. In spite of all that he is doing to occupy himself as he searches for McCree— time ticks on slowly. It's like the drip of rain drops on a roof. One falling after another, racing down from the heavens. Tap. Tap.

Anticipation is no friend of his. It does nothing in helping to further his goal, so he attempts to keep himself busy. Sips that nasty drink he bought, rehearses in his head what he might say to McCree. Hanzo is not one to ask for help. He tries to tell himself that this is different. Not so much asking for help as it is a mutual agreement between two parties that'll bring forth benefits for the two of them. This all riding on whether or not McCree will agree.

Hanzo heads to the bathroom.

As to be expected in an establishment such as this one, the restroom is filthy beyond measure. Graffiti is sprayed all along the walls and the outside of the stalls, made up of letters that are curling or bubbled— as well as obscene drawings. The walls were so thoroughly coated in filth and paint, that Hanzo could hardly make out the original wall beneath.

Hanzo heads over to the urinal, relieves himself, zips back up, and heads over to the row of sinks. He picks the cleanest sink, avoiding the one that looks like someone might've died in. He scrubs his hands thoroughly. Just being in this bathroom makes his skin crawl. It's the most disgusting one he's ever seen.

“Hey there, stranger.”

Hanzo startles at the voice. It's strange, sounds almost like two voices intermingling. A man's voice, deep and with a southern drawl, with an undercurrent of something... inhuman. Hanzo tries to find the source of it. First, he glances behind him. Nothing but an empty bathroom. He looks to the door. Closed. No one there.

His eyes flash to the mirror. Instead of his own reflection stands McCree. Hanzo blinks. McCree remains. Hanzo leans back. McCree does the same. Hanzo’s hand darts out. He expects it to be cool to the touch but is surprised to find it is warm as he nears it.

Fingertips press against the mirror’s surface.

Calloused fingertips press against his own, warm where he should feel nothing but the cold press of glass against his fingers. Hanzo snatches his hand away as if he’s been burned. The shock that jolts through him is cold as ice.

“How have you done that?” Hanzo inquires. His gaze is shrewd as he stares McCree dead in the eyes, his tone wary.

McCree meets his gaze without hesitance, looking almost easy-going. It would jar a lesser man. McCree's voice is smooth, "You know what I am, darlin’. Don’t ya?”

Hanzo does. He would be a fool not to.

“Demon,” Hanzo says.

“Guilty as charged.” McCree looks him over. “Ain’t it a little warm to be wearing a hoodie?”

“Mind your business, McCree.”

“I'm guessing you know my name since you know what I am, but just who are you? What are you? Can’t help but wonder. You a hunter?”

“Not exactly," Hanzo says, "I am Hanzo Shimada."

“…Well, you ain't a demon like me. So, what's not exactly mean?”

Hanzo crosses his arms over his chest, “McCree, I do not have time for games. Let us cut to the chase.”

McCree nods, “Fine by me.”

“I am seeking a deal.”

“What sorta deal?”

“I hear you are capable of killing ten men with single bullet, that all you need do is look at a man and you know his secrets, the time of his death, that his soul is yours too take.”

McCree huffs, “Yeah, yeah. Bit of an embellishment, can't usually take a soul with just a look unless— well, it ain't nothing too special.”

Hanzo scoffs. “’Nothing too special’? I would like such a power like that— to have my aim true—”

“Ain’t like I can do it all the time. Closest explanation I got is that it’s real similar magic or anything, you gotta have the juice for it.”

“The juice?”

“Yeah, like the potential for it. The energy, the power— it’s gotta be charged. Can only use every so often, ain't just on command. Plus, again, potential for magic's gotta be there in your blood.”

“Do I have the potential?”

McCree looks him over. “That and more.”

“I want the powers of your kind," Hanzo says, "Enhanced strength, speed, agility, and whatever powers that may also come with it,” Hanzo says.

A bang fills the still air as the bathroom door flies open. With it, arrives a gust of wind that rips violently through the dingy bathroom. The force of the gale is enough that it tugs harshly at Hanzo's clothes and threatens to topple him from where he stands. He does his best to brace himself against it. His eyes fall shut.

It feels almost as if Hanzo doesn't fight the winds, he'll float away on them. Illogical as it sounds, a thought in the back of his mind screams how if he does not fight, he'll be ripped from this earth and pulled away into the world's vast unknown.

The bar's sounds of glasses clinking, slow music, and multiple conversations don't melt away so much as they are sucked in, like some sort of vacuum. They are replaced by the sounds of night in the desert countryside: the gentle summer breeze, the songs of nocturnal birds, the screech of an owl, and the shifting sand. It is quiet, the wind is little more than a memory here. Hanzo relaxes his posture and opens his eyes. Upon doing so, the sight of two roads meeting greets Hanzo. There's desert on all sides, but the two roads merge like kissing lovers.

A crossroad.

Hanzo looks around him, catching sight of a figure enveloped in shadow. Strangely, the shadows seem to collect around the figure. It's almost as if there's a tear in the very fabric of reality. It takes a step forward into the moonlight, out of the void.

It's McCree standing before him. The tear dissipates into smoke, the moonlight falls onto McCree. The moonlight paints him in silvery light and soft shadow. He looks every bit as unearthly as a demon might be. Inhuman. Yet, somehow— aesthetically pleasing, almost. Like a painting, a spirit captured in oil, brush strokes, and canvas. He looks at home. A wanderer in the desert.

McCree's voice echoes in the quiet night air, warm where the breeze rolling through isn't. “You want a deal? Here’s where we make ‘em.”

“A crossroad, yes. I’m aware," Hanzo says.

“Yep. So, you still wanting that deal?”

Hanzo clears his throat. “Yes.”

McCree's lips are pursed, his gaze shrewd as he eyes Hanzo. Were Hanzo a lesser man, McCree might see right through him. McCree's voice is quiet as he asks, "Just what are you prepared to offer?”

Cautiously, Hanzo asks, “What is it you want?”

“I could do with your heart.”

“My heart?” Hanzo echoes.

“Yeah, that's what I said.”

_His heart._

There's no helping it. The incredulity of the words hit Hanzo square in the chest. His _heart_. Ridiculous. He can't help the derisive chuckle that leaves his lips, nor the anger bubbling up in him.

"Something funny about that?" McCree asks.

"No," Hanzo says. "It is in your best interest that I remind you that I'm here with a purpose. I did not come to play games, demon." The sharpness in Hanzo's tone is akin to the edge of a blade.

“Neither am I, _human_.” McCree looks just as displeased as Hanzo is. His scowl is heavy, eyes narrow, and he crosses his arms over his chest.

Hanzo does not have time for games.

"You might have fooled me. _My heart_." Mocking, the words are hissed through clenched teeth. "What use might a beast such as yourself even have for that? A heart. How trivial. Juvenile," Hanzo says. His lips are curled into a sneer, the anger in him festers like an open wound.

McCree shakes his head. He turns to fully face Hanzo, the moonlight highlighting his features in a way the dingy bathroom light could not. The slope of his nose, crinkled in disgust, but by the shape of the bridge was surely broken before. Perhaps more than once. His lips a thin line from where they were pursed tight, the sharp cut of his jawline, the furrow of his brow, and his eyes squinting—

Oh, his eyes.

The eyes that had captured Hanzo in their gaze back in the bar were gone. In place of the dark brown surrounded by white, there was nothing. McCree's eyes were black as the night, without the twinkle of the stars to disrupt the darkness. Two twin pools of liquid obsidian, they stare back at Hanzo. Unblinking. Inhuman. Unfeeling. They pair with McCree's voice in a way that would make a lesser man tremble.

Clipped, final, and with a tone that suggests danger, McCree says, "Don't know where you got the idea, sugar. But, you don't know half as much as you think you do." It would've cut anyone else down.

Hanzo Shimada is not just anyone.

Unflinching, he levels McCree with a glare of his own. Meeting his eyes, even as every primal instinct in him screams not to. "I am no fool," Hanzo says. His tone is even, a juxtaposition with the pure rage in his eyes.

If it affects McCree in any way other than annoyance, he does not show it. Instead, he sighs long and loud. “Heart’s where the soul is stored,” McCree says.

Hanzo hums. “It seems such a strange place to store it. Too fragile.”

McCree merely shrugs. “Ain’t like I put it there," He says, "That’s just where it’s at. Right in the heart, stays there ‘til your dyin’ moments.”

Hanzo decides not to comment on that. He's not sure what he could say, even if he could gather words together. It's one of those kinds of moments that seem to exist beyond the realm of conversation, that just exist for silence. Plus, there's something about it— the idea of dying before he can accomplish all that he's set out to do. It's the idea of dying itself. But, more the idea of not finding Genji, of not being able to uncover the truth of what happened to their family and ancestral home.

The thought is excruciating, a blade twisting in Hanzo's chest. He stifles it, pushes the pain down far below. In an effort to take his mind off of it, Hanzo asks, "What will you do with my heart once it is yours?" Even as he feigns indifference, Hanzo's heart is beating hard in his chest— practically slamming against his ribcage.

It doesn't help when McCree meets his gaze and Hanzo is forced to stare into those eyes of his. Eyes that don't shine from the light of the moon or stars. Eyes that pull the light into them, like twin voids. Meanwhile the weight of a black hole lies on Hanzo's shoulders, his burden crushing him.

But, those eyes. They are on him. McCree is gauging his reaction. Perhaps, trying to figure out how Hanzo might react before he speaks. McCree's voice is almost soft, a lover's whisper. "Eat it."

_Eat it._

It's unnerving enough that Hanzo might've lost his nerve if not for the goal he needed to accomplish. How it was said so casually. As if they were speaking over lunch like old friends, instead of the consumption of Hanzo's immortal soul. Of everything that culminated within him, that made him himself. All of it gone. Devoured. The thought is simply horrifying.

But, Hanzo has to see his goals through.

Hanzo must agree. This is for Genji, for their family.

Apprehensive as he is, Hanzo saves face and keeps his voice steady. A lesson learned through his father, not one taken lightly. "It is yours," Hanzo says. However, he does not leave it at that. Another lesson, his father taught him business, taught him better than that.

"There is a condition."

"What's that?" McCree asks.

"It is yours only after we find my brother Genji and those who betrayed our family get what they deserve. Not before, nor during. Only after does my soul belong to you. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," McCree says, "It's a deal. You'll get those powers. And I'll offer you my help, too. You never know when you'll need a demon on your side."

"Very well," Hanzo says. There is nothing wrong with an ally. He could do it alone if he wished. But, he could also use McCree if the need arose.

A cool breeze sweeps in, strangely frigid in the desert atmosphere. The breeze causes a few strands of hair to flutter in front of McCree's eyes. Simply, he says, "We just gotta seal the deal now."

“How?” Hanzo asks, cautiously.

McCree's eyes are on his. "Well, usually with a kiss.”

It's plain to see that Hanzo is less than pleased with the mere notion of such an arrangement. He frowns, ready to voice his displeasure when McCree speaks up.

“We don’t have to—”

Hanzo's not having it. He snaps, “Get it over with."

McCree shakes his head, there's a frown at his lips. He's hesitating. "Naw, if you don't wanna, we don't— I ain't gonna make you. We could seal it some other kinda way—"

Whatever words McCree might've said next die on his lips as Hanzo's hands grasp at his serape. His fingers dig in harsh, clawing to get a good grip onto the fabric before he's pulling McCree closer. Hanzo’s eyes are dark as they meet McCree’s for a moment, that magnetic gaze pulls Hanzo in. The air between them is filled with tension and the soft puffs of Hanzo’s breath.

Both of them seem to hesitate, both unsure of how to proceed next. Hanzo gets tired of dancing around this, the pair of them so unsure of who should make the next move. Hanzo leans in.

The first press of their lips is faint; McCree’s been caught off guard and Hanzo has no experience to guide him. He kisses McCree slow, but with a demanding pressure. It’s a pale imitation of the kissing he’s seen in movies and couples in public do. It’s probably not the best kiss, but let it be known that Hanzo never does anything half-assed. He throws every bit of himself into everything he does.

Another moment passes, and the kiss is over. McCree is the first to pull away. Hanzo’s lips are slightly parted, he tries to think of what to say. But before he has even the scarcest idea— McCree’s lips are on his again. They are soft, yielding, and slow presses against his lips. Chapped, but the warmth of his mouth makes up for it. McCree’s hand is warm, too, as it settles on Hanzo’s waist. He can feel it through his clothes, burning like a brand. Teeth scrape over his bottom lip, impossibly delicate even as sharp as they feel.

Hanzo shoves him away hard, before he wipes at his mouth. It tingles. "Satisfied?" He asks. He spits the words out like they're poison.

McCree looks him over with an expression that Hanzo can’t quite read, those black eyes of his impossibly darker. McCree says, “Deal’s done, yeah.”

Words rattle around in Hanzo's brain, unsure of how to voice them, he lets them remain where they are. That's all? He feels no different. Perhaps, he should say something.

A pain explodes in Hanzo's chest.

White hot, with the intensity of a burning flame. It starts where his heart beats and spread out to his sternum. The pain is unlike anything he's ever felt before. It brings him to his knees, breaths coming out in ragged, aborted gasps. He would cry out were it not for the fact that he could scarcely breathe. His hand flies to where the agony radiates at his chest. There's heat coming off of it, like holding an open hand over a fire, the flames licking the palm.

Like there's a fire beneath his skin, burning away.

Without regards for decency, Hanzo lifts up his hoodie and the shirt beneath to look at the source of his pain. It's difficult to see at this angle, but it appears to be a tattoo, almost. Dark ink swirling from right over his right pec to his sternum and stopping just shy of where the blue ink he's had for as long as he can recall ends. It didn't hurt nearly as bad as this had. To see what McCree had done to him, he'd need a mirror and a better light than that of the moon.

Hanzo's breaths are still labored, it's almost embarrassing. He huffs but tries to slow them down and get them under control. He lets go of his clothing, allows it to fall back into place and conceal his skin from the cool desert air. His body is trembling from the echoes of the pain that had previously wracked it. He looks to McCree, who still regards him with that strange, unreadable expression.

"What are you staring at?" Hanzo snaps.

“Nothin'. Just wondering if you’re alright.”

"I am fine," Hanzo says, teeth ground, "No thanks to you."

McCree isn't the least bit apologetic. “You wanted this.”

“I did want a deal, yes. But _this_?” Hanzo gestures to his new acquired ink.

McCree says, “We have a deal. You gotta have my mark, ain’t exactly up to me. Be thankful it’s just ink. I’ve seen demons who burn and carve their marks into humans’ skin, so it’ll scar.”

“I am not going to thank you for that.”

“I don't want your thanks, anyhow. I’ll be in touch.”

Hanzo glances to the horizon. Time has escaped them. A hint of soft blue begins to emerge from behind the rock formations and casts its light across the sky. Slowly but surely, the soft dawn is overtaking the night. It almost reminds Hanzo of an open window in a darkened room.

“If you need something just holler. I should answer most of the time.”

“I will likely not require your assistance,” Hanzo says, "Nor will I… holler."

“Never know,” McCree says. Hanzo thinks that might be the end of this, but instead McCree reaches into the back pocket of his own pants. “If you need me, just call my name. Or use this.” He holds out his hand, something cradled in his closed fist.

With more hesitancy than he would have liked to show, Hanzo's hand strays from where it had limply hung at his side. Palm open, hand outstretched, and awaiting whatever McCree is prepared to give him. McCree's hand places the object into his palm with the utmost care. Then, his hand is behind Hanzo's, gentle as he pushes his fingers closed over the object.

“Don’t lose that. It’s real important.”

There are no words that Hanzo can say, so he merely nods in response.

“Alright, I’ll be seeing you around, then.”

There were questions that Hanzo might've asked, doubts that swirled about in his mind. But, before he could voice any of them, they were swept away by a great gust of wind. Just as the one that had come before, brought them to this place. The force of it had Hanzo bracing himself against the gale, eyes closed. He waits until the air is still before opening them again.

Truth be told, he'd almost expected to find himself back in the bar bathroom. Instead, he is returned to his motel room. The door is closed and pale morning light streams through the curtains.

A glance down yields the sight of boots being caked with red from the desert sand. Still in his hand is the object McCree had given him. It's a color somewhere between warm clay brown and yellow, the groves and carvings are painted in soft black shadow from the dim lighting with the motel room. It's a skull, Hanzo realizes. Not a real one, but one sculpted from clay or stone, he's not really sure. It's been fashioned with wide gaping eyes, a small hole for the nose, a macabre grin, and a sort of tube like structure that extends from the top of the skull.

A whistle.

For a moment, Hanzo thinks to try it out. However, upon second thought, he decides against it. He's sure of its purpose and he does not particularly want to come face to face with Jesse McCree again anytime soon. If he can help it. Hanzo will admit that their encounter did leave him feeling different. It's as if there's a thrum of power beneath his skin, coursing through his veins; just awaiting the chance to be used.

The whistle ends up on the desk by the window, looking strangely in place amongst the shadows in that darkened corner. There's hardly any light that escapes the curtains or the blinds. Hanzo runs a hand through his hair and resists the urge to start pulling at it. An old habit from his childhood, one that rears its head often as of late. The stress and the weight of his burden sits firmly on his shoulders. He sighs.

Dealing with demons.

Desperation led him to this point. Two years of trying to find his brother. He must see this through. Whether it's finding Genji or his bones. But, a part of him knows Genji is alive, that he has to be. As if Hanzo would know if Genji no longer walked the earth. Yes, he had to do this. The deal is merely a means to an end. Hanzo likes to think he'll at least get a good few years to spend with his brother. It's just the thought of what'll be at the end of it that's got him so alarmed.

Yet, when he thinks of the few childhood memories he's got— Genji and himself, running through the gardens in sun or rain. His bright laughter, his smile so soft, and how both those things carried a warmth passed down from their mother. Truly a child of summer.

Without their mother, without Genji— it felt as if winter is overtaking Hanzo. A forest in the dead of winter, bereft of life and color. It had to be done. He couldn't go on like this. Whatever may come to pass because of this didn't matter. Hanzo would find Genji. He would destroy those who tore his family apart. Hanzo would live out his remaining days with Genji, however long he had. Be it months, weeks. Make the most of his life until his last day, when McCree would come and take what he was owed.

It takes Hanzo a few minutes to fully pull himself out of his head. He needs a shower and some sleep. He heads to the bathroom with further ado, shuts the door behind him, and pauses before the mirror. Curiosity gets the better of him and he decides now is as good a time as any to spare a glance to his newly acquired tattoo. He undresses, too tired to do anything but carelessly toss his clothes to the floor. Once he is done, he looks to the mirror. Sure enough, it sits on the right side of his chest and spreads to stop near his sternum, skirting the edge of the blue tattoo on his left.

It's there in bold, thick lines and inked in array of vibrant colors: a black and pale red rattlesnake coiled and looped around the length of a pale off white skull. The snake's fangs are bared, it's tongue out, and its upper half is curved into a tight arc. No doubt preparing to strike. The skull itself seemed to be that of a human, it's eyes no more than empty sockets, the mouth slightly agape, along with red dahlias blooming around both the skull and the snake.

Hanzo can't believe it's going to be on his skin for the rest of his life. The incredulity is almost too much to even stomach. There's only one way for him to describe it.

"Tacky," Hanzo says.

It echoes in the empty bathroom. His displeasure is plain enough to see by the way his nose is scrunched up, lips curled into a deep frown.

As Hanzo turns away from the mirror, he swears that he can almost hear McCree laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope y'all enjoyed that little kiss they shared it won't happen again for like. a long ass time lmao
> 
> thank you again for the comments, they were super sweet and i appreciate any more you'd like to throw my way, it really aids in encouraging me to write more and faster tbh lmaoo, but really thank y'all! i hope u enjoyed this chapter!


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